


Grey Echoes

by crushermyheart08



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Aftermath, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s02e24 Tuvix, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25219906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crushermyheart08/pseuds/crushermyheart08
Summary: 'She will not hide from what she has done, from the ever-fixed scar that marks her memory.' In the aftermath of Tuvix's death, the Captain reflects on the consequences of her actions.
Relationships: Chakotay & Kathryn Janeway
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8





	Grey Echoes

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Star Trek Voyager or any of its characters.
> 
> A/N: Hello everyone! I thought I'd share an actual finished piece of work for the first time in almost a year... Hope everyone is keeping safe and well. I've been rewatching Star Trek Voyager having not seen it for about 10 years, and I felt I had to write something after watching the episode 'Tuvix,' if only to settle my own torn thoughts about it. I would love to know what you think. Please read and review if you have the time. Constructive criticism is welcome. As always, enjoy :) Shared from my fanfiction.net account x

The carpet is an endless grey. Her feet move of their own accord, each step a stumble, a suppressed urge to run. The walls close in and duty gravitates her in the direction of the Bridge, an indignant determination to maintain her professional mask. She will not hide from what she has done, from the ever-fixed scar that marks her memory.

_I forgive you._

Too vividly she remembers the tone of his voice, how it had softened, held with a dignity befitting of any Vulcan. How he had looked at her with that gentle smile of his, so reminiscent of Neelix, spread as wide as his own capacity for friendship. And how he had, with those words, allowed her an infinitesimally small comfort which would provide no lasting solace in the hours to come.

The hypospray weighs heavy in her hand, body moving with all the precision, the efficiency, the autonomous movement of a machine. There is no one there willing to stop her, no one to hear the small shrill voice screaming deep within her soul. And as she moves across Sickbay toward the biobed, toward the place of ghastly, unthinkable execution, she knows this action will undoubtedly haunt her for the rest of her life. She _knows_ that. It's already threatening to ebb away at the nerves of steel she has forged together one by one.

There are no farewells, no apologies, no words to occupy the silence left in the wake of the hypospray's hiss. Only his eyes, dark with reluctant surrender, give any indication of his inner turmoil. Or perhaps it is her own inescapable burden she sees reflected there.

"Energising."

They're there. Both of them. Whole and safe, and clad in identical Starfleet uniforms. Exactly where they should be. She hears her own voice, clipped, betraying a little fondness.

"It's good to have you back."

The way Tuvok is looking at her, brows pinched together in his usual shrewd manner, is enough to unnerve her entirely. The need to retreat is irrepressible. It starts at the tips of her fingers, an odd tingling sensation that crawls into her palms where her nails have already embedded themselves. By the time she reaches the turbolift her ribcage is ablaze with an anxious fire, a startling, crushing weight. Deck 1 seems a lifetime away.

_Each of you are going to have to live with this, and I am sorry for that._

The doors swish open to reveal the Bridge, her crew, each face raw and open with a nervous expectance. The air is thick, laden with echoes of a stolen life. She can still hear his panicked footfall, see the path he had staggered burned into the carpet, a path he had weaved around them, through them, as he begged for his life. No one had responded. No one had come to his aid. The crew had wanted their friends back as much as she did - even if it meant losing another.

Chakotay straightens, meets her gaze with that damn gentle concern of his. Maybe he already knows what has occurred. Maybe it's their own certainty of a decision she has never openly voiced that gives her the strength to continue.

"The procedure was successful. Mr Tuvok and Mr Neelix are safely back on board." Her words taste like gravel. They _sound_ like gravel. "You have the Bridge, Commander." She's already heading for the door. "I'll be in my Ready Room if you need me."

The four walls shield her from the relieved expressions she has left behind, but they cannot shield her from her own disturbing thoughts. They have heard every word, every argument, mulled over the consequences of action and inaction. They are her witness, her only witness to what she has spoken into the dark.

The desk creaks as she leans against it, closes her eyes, breathes in until her chest is filled with an unfamiliar staleness.

_My colleagues; my friends._

Sending a member of a crew to their death was sometimes a necessary decision. She was prepared for that - to save the ship, to save the mission, because the needs of the many always outweigh the needs of the few. But ordering someone to their death, against their will, by force, for the crime of being alive. That was murder. Cold, unforgiving murder. And yet in turn Tuvix had unwittingly murdered the unsuspecting Vulcan and Talaxian by simply coming to fruition.

Her fingers curl over the desk, head bowed against the rush of light-headed nausea. Is that what she is now? Is that how her crew will see her? As a murderer roaming the gangways?

She knows what she's done. She understands the severity of the action. It's the Captain's prerogative, her duty to take on the necessities, to carry the responsibility of the unpalatable decisions, regardless of the practical or ethical difficulties. To shoulder those burdens so that others will not have to. Maybe they're thankful for that, grateful to have been spared the culpability. Even if they are all guilty in their own way.

_Doesn't anyone see that this is wrong?_

Her hands are shaking, body struggling with the physical repercussions, awash with a barely repressed horror. The maelstrom of morality swirls with a greater force. Guilt pricks beneath her skin, a distressing, feverish shiver, winding its way deep into her conscious.

_For you are all good people._

Good has nothing to do with it. It never has. Goodness is something every lifeform has the opportunity to grasp, to cradle, but all too often that goodness is tainted with necessary evils, and thus it begins to diminish, piece by piece. No one, not one sentient life in the universe, is capable of being completely good.

She sinks into the sofa, stares aimlessly out at the passing stars, each one a mere flicker, a blip in the infinity of the universe. How small their lives are compared with the vast enormity of space, and yet how much more precious for it. Perhaps Tuvix was one of those stars now, a glimmer of light that had entered their lives for however brief a time. Perhaps she will name one after him, as a memorial, as a reminder of his life.

"Captain?"

She doesn't acknowledge him, unaware of how long he has stood there, watching her, choosing instead to continue her blind scrutiny of the distant stars.

"I just wanted to say, if I may, on behalf of the crew and myself... thank you. For bringing Tuvok and Neelix home." He shifts his weight, collects his thoughts. "The ship wouldn't be the same without them."

She nods imperceptibly.

"Are you..." He sounds uncertain, hesitant to breach the boundaries that have been silently set in place. "Are you alright?"

Her eyes never depart from the viewport but she turns toward him, feels the coarse fabric twist beneath her palms. There's no need for dishonesty.

"I'll be fine, Commander."

Her tone is a pale shadow of her usual command, and she is suddenly acutely, uncomfortably aware of his quiet observation.

He traverses the short distance to the replicator, delicately weighs his words.

"Both Neelix and Tuvok would like to speak with you," he continues in his usual diplomatic tone, the replicator beginning its soft hum. "Tuvok, especially so. However, I thought it best they had some time for themselves before resuming their duties. No doubt they'll need to reflect on what has passed."

There are words between the lines, ever so subtly placed. She isn't ready to face their newly returned crew members. Did they know what had transpired? Did they have any memory of Tuvix's life? Did he live on in them as Neelix and Tuvok had lived in him? She is unprepared for their reaction, for their sympathy, neither their relief or grief. Chakotay knows that, and she is thankful for the small kindness.

As the Commander returns she fights the immediate instinct to recoil, reluctantly accepting the beverage he presses into her hands. The glass is cool against her febrile skin, and she realises his intention is for her to drink, to soothe the dry heat consuming her throat.

"There was no right or wrong choice, Captain. You know that," Chakotay says, his voice softening. "I just wish the decision hadn't been yours to make. If I'd have known the Doctor-"

She holds up her hand, silencing that train of thought. What-ifs were possibilities she could ill-afford to indulge. Her position was untenable. Action has made her guilty for taking a life. Inaction would have made her guilty for failing to redeem two. It is not a Starfleet Captain's place to regret their decisions, to second-guess themselves. Doing so would deem them unfit for command.

It strikes her for a moment that he knows she endured the task herself, but news spreads quickly in such a tightly-knit community. There will be those, she understands, who won't be able to look her in the eye come the morning. Be it one crewman or fifty, they'll be unsure of her judgement, ready to scrutinise her every future decision. For it had been a decision that could as easily divide the crew as it had her own mind.

Still the Commander does not retreat, but he refrains himself from further intrusion. Any words she might have spoken dissolve into nothingness as she swallows the clear liquid, feels the odd sensation spreading across her chest, numbing the cavities beneath her ribs.

"Was there anything else?"

Her rough voice surprises her.

He considers her carefully. Any elaborate words of sympathy would be hollow, meaningless, an unwelcome platitude.

"I thought you should know that, although we will miss Tuvix a very great deal, the majority of the crew, including myself, were relieved by your decision, and we cannot and will not hold you accountable." The words are heavy as they tumble from his lips, a revelation he would rather not admit. "I don't believe Tuvix would wish any degree of suffering upon this crew, and whilst we must suffer his loss, we will honour his memory and pray his spirit is guided to a better place."

Her jaw tightens, a futile attempt at belaying inevitable tears. She wishes him far away, out of sight, wishes he had never entered the room if only to salvage a few more moments to gather herself. The carpet blurs; she presses a hand to her face.

Every bone in her body rests in the knowledge that she has acted in the best interests of her crew, but she cannot deny that she has lost a part of herself in doing so. Where there had once been innocence there is now an emptiness, a sickening weariness where certainty had thrived. It had been her sacrifice alone to make, but it had bore an irrevocable change. Judge and jury. The decision had near torn her apart, further still when the Doctor had heaved the entire burden onto her already burdened shoulders at the very last minute. She hadn't anticipated being executioner as well, but she had committed the act nonetheless. Ruthlessly, almost, devoid of emotions she can no longer suppress.

A hand on her shoulder. The sofa dips, his weight shifting towards her. She buries her face in her hands, feels the sharp edges of her elbows dig into her knees. Even in this newfound darkness she sees his face. How he had stared at her, logic battling with survival instinct, reluctantly accepting his fate. All at once his battering accusations fill the void, his disbelief and disgust as tangible as her own stifled breath.

And then comes Kes, eyes wide and red-rimmed, breaking down in a fit of tears as her arms fling around the Captain's neck for dear life, trembling with a resurfaced grief and loneliness.

Crumbling here, now, is not an option. She refuses to give into the aching pressure reaching into every sinew, every muscle, refuses to unleash the cry lodged stubbornly in her throat. Later, perhaps, she will, in the dim light of her cabin where there are no prying eyes, no ears to hear her grief. But not now. Not when the world is tender with fractured memories.

He doesn't speak, doesn't offer a word of advice, and she is almost startled that he can bear to be this close to her after what she has done. Offering her a comfort she hardly deserves. She is grateful for it, even if she cannot voice it aloud, content to let him stay for a brief while longer.

Tuvix was right. She would have to live with this, but what she is certain of now is that she _will_. She will carry this wherever she goes: a lingering reminder of her guilt, a grey echo of a life she has taken, and a resolution to never take for granted the lives she has saved.


End file.
